


James and the Giant Peach Ice Cream

by cyrene



Series: Long Live [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Seriously it's nuts how much his parents love him, james lives a charmed life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:14:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27718013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyrene/pseuds/cyrene
Summary: When eleven-year-old James sees a sign reading "Please Help" what else is he supposed to do?
Series: Long Live [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026196
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	James and the Giant Peach Ice Cream

**Author's Note:**

> James is going to have to find something else to talk about in therapy, because his parents are amazing.

The day after James Potter’s eleventh birthday, his parents takes him to Diagon Alley. They’re too excited – they can’t wait to buy all the supplies on his list. So, even though he’s just had a load of birthday presents, James gets to go shopping.

The purchase of a new broom is his biggest surprise. His parents had _sworn_ they were not getting him one, not even for his birthday, but here they are at the Quidditch shop and his father is asking, “What do you think, son, the Cleansweep?” and James could _cry_ he’s so happy. He has his broom, and his letter... he has everything he could have ever wanted!

He’s standing outside Gringott’s finishing his ice cream cone while his parents are inside doing business. Something boring and adult. Frankly, James is grateful his ice cream cone kept him from having to go inside. James goes to throw the wrapper away, and that’s when he sees the man.

Sitting at the entrance to the alleyway there is a man. He is of indeterminate age, just _adult_. It’s hard to tell, with all the scruff and the dirt on him, anything characteristic or outstanding. He’s just a dirty man in a dirty alleyway, holding a sign which reads, “Please Help”.

“Help with what?” James asks before he can stop himself, and the man huffs out a laugh.

“What’s the matter, kid, you never seen someone down on their luck before?”

James thought of Peter Pettigrew, probably the unluckiest bloke he knew and shrugged.

“What do you need help with?” James asks again.

The man looks at him incredulously. “I’m homeless, kid. I beg for money on the street. Do you understand?”

James understands the concept of homelessness, in a vague sort of way, but it has never occurred to him that the problem is not uniquely Muggle. That here, in the Wizarding world, there are also people who are in desperate need. Desperate enough to sit on the sidewalk with a sign reading “Please Help”.

“Here,” James says, emptying his pockets of all his birthday galleons without a second thought. “Take this for now. Hey, I bet my Dad would give you a job,” he says casually.

“What am I doing now?” a jovial, booming voice inquires from behind James.

“Dad,” James says, adjusting his glasses with a frown. “This man needs a job. I thought maybe we could help.”

Fleamont’s face turns from happy to serious very quickly. “Is that so?” he says, eyeing the man sitting before them.

“I wasn’t bothering him, I swear,” the man says quickly, “look, he came over here!”

“It’s all right,” Fleamont assures him. “I know how my son can be. But are you, though? Looking for work?”

The man shakes his head. “Yes, but –”

“Oh, good.” He takes a flashy business card out of his pocket and levitates it into the pocket of the man’s shabby coat. “Come see me Monday, then. I’ll get you sorted out.”

“ _But sir_ ,” the man protests, looking increasingly and bafflingly frightened as he wrings his hat in his hands and glances from James to Fleamont, trying to find some sort of understanding. “I’d only have to leave when – the full moon,” he says softly.

“Ah,” Fleamont says, just as softly. “I assume you would need that night off?”

“And the day after to recover,” the man says miserably. “That’s how the usually catch me out.”

Fleamont leans in a little closer and winks. “You just come by on Monday, and I’ll get you sorted out.”

The surprise in the man’s face is comical. “Yes sir,” he says, “but oughtn’t you take your son’s allowance money back?”

Fleamont looks sharply at the tin can down by their feet, where all of James’s birthday money now sits.

“No,” he says, “I think not. That was his gift, and I see he gave what he could. Come on, now, James. Let’s get back to your mother.”

They go home after that. Neither of his parents really say anything at first, but James’s mom makes all his favorites for dinner and James’s dad ruffles his hair. On his way up to bed, Fleamont calls out to him.

“Your mom and I are so proud of the young man you’re becoming,” he says, and the words warm James like sunshine.

That’s why, a few months later on the train, he sits with the lonely boy.

It’s been a fantastic day, September 1st has. They almost forgot to bring James’s luggage and had to turn around, and are nearly late. James runs into the fanciest child he’d ever seen while trying to load his luggage. He swings around and smacks right into the poncy-looking git.

“I’m so sorry!” James says immediately, out of habit. Inside, he’s prepared to drop his bag and have to fight. Before he even gets on the train. Would that be a record or something?

But: “It’s all right,” the other boy says. “I wasn’t looking where I was going either. Sirius Black,” he says, extending his hand like they’re adults or something.

James introduces himself in return and shakes hands because, really, he’d much rather have a friend than a fight any day.

So: “Wanna dungbomb the prefects’ carriage?” he asks, and Sirius’s face lights up.

They run into Peter along the way, and James has the pleasure of introducing his newest friend to one of his oldest friends. Pete’s game, because of course he is, so the three of them make their way to the prefect’s carriage, where he’s sure everyone gathered is boring as hell and... and _prefectly_.

They’re in and out in less than a minute, and no one even saw them coming. Then they’re running down the aisles as the train takes off, laughing raucously. James runs headfirst into a redhaired girl, barely calling out an apology behind him as he races to keep up with Sirius, who is surely a sprinter in his spare time or something.

They end up in the back of the train, in the last lonely car, which appears to be empty at first, but then James sees the boy.

There is a boy sitting in the carriage, reading a paperback book, from behind which he looks at them with apprehension in his eyes. Everything about him is shabby, from his patched blue jeans to his cheap haircut. He’s practically wearing a sign that reads, “Please Help”.

“Hey,” James says with an out of breath grin. “Mind if we hide in here?”

The boys shakes his head silently.

“Thanks mate.”

They sit down, Sirius flops next to the boy, and regain their collective breaths while the boy reads his book.

“What’s a Hobbit?” Sirius asks, peeking at the cover.

“Rude!” James exclaims. “We should introduce ourselves. I am James Potter, and my partners in crime here are Peter Pettigrew and Sirius Black.”

“Remus Lupin,” the boy says shyly, lowering his book and looking at them properly now. “I—”

The carriage door opens then, a large sixth year in Hufflepuff robes and wearing shiny prefect’s badge glares down at them.

“You four wouldn’t happen to know anything about dungbombs in the prefects’ car, would you?” he asks. The smell coming off him is atrocious, and James has to cover his grin with a hand. “Three first years were seen fleeing the scene.”

Oh, they are caught. Dead meat. James is going to have detention _before_ his first day at Hogwarts. He’s going to go into his new house after the sorting with a deficit of points, and everyone in Gryffindor – because, let’s face it, what other house is James Fleamont Potter getting into? – is going to _hate him_.

“They’ve been in here with me this whole time,” a voice pipes up. Remus Lupin, looking at them over his book again. “I solemnly swear,” he says, and it doesn’t sound ridiculous coming from that serious-faced boy.

As if by miracle, the Hufflepuff prefect just nods and leaves, though he doesn’t look pleased about it.

“You,” Sirius Black says in awe, “are amazing. I bet you win at poker, like, every time.”

“I do all right,” Remus shrugs, but he’s grinning now.

“All right, gents,” James claps his hands together. “Let’s pool our resources. Remus gets first pick.”

“I-I get first pick of what?” Remus askes tentatively, but the other three are already at work.

Sirius has money for the trolley, but no snacks. Peter has prepackaged snacks, but no money. James has money for the trolley and a bag of Gulab Jamun, plus some mini pies that he knew his mother packed for him to hand out and make friends.

Remus’s eyes are as wide as saucers. “I-I’ve got a shitty sandwich me mum made? And a half a bar of fucking chocolate?”

“You, as our savior, are not required to contribute at this time,” James tells him matter-of-factly, secretly impressed by Remus’s casual foul mouth. He thrusts the bag of sweets and a pie at Remus. “Here,” he says, “try one of these. My mum made them.”

They pass the bag around and the boys all cheerfully accept the treats. They spend the rest of the train ride getting to know each other in the best ways possible. Sirius and James compete with outlandish stories of mischief and mayhem. Remus tells them about Hobbits, which takes at least thirty minutes, and they are so enraptured that it probably could have gone on longer had the trolley witch not interrupted.

“Gryffindor, boys,” James said in a conspiring tone, “ask the Sorting Hat to put you in Gryffindor, and we can all room together. Imagine the mischief!”

He’s so happy he could shout.


End file.
